Sleepless
by satanslut
Summary: While struggling through Buffy's death and resurrection, Spike and Willow bond.
1. Sleepless

She never sleeps, not really. She pretends she does, and it seems to fool her lover, but Spike? No, he's not so easily misled. Not when he sees the odd cast to her skin and the shadows under her eyes and the desperation with which she performs every task (and there are many, so many, that she's expected to perform).

She's running on fumes, trying to get where she needs to go with nothing in her to get there except her will, a will that's dangerously close to taking her to places she _shouldn't_ go - places with too much magic and the loss of what makes her so special: that innate purity and goodness that always made her the one he most wanted to turn and corrupt and devour. It wouldn't be right for anyone but him to be the one to bring darkness to the sunlit brightness of her soul.

Something has to be done.

It's not hard to get her to come to his crypt, some pathetic excuse he can't even remember is enough. She's too tired to even see through the worst of his ruses, which is good since lately he's been too tired (and drunk and grieving) to come up with good ones. She's impatient though (she moves constantly, as if the motion is keeping her awake - and it probably is) and as he hems and haws and tries to think of the right way to say what he means (words were William and William seems so far away), she moves to leave.

He grabs her.

Not difficult to keep her there; he doesn't even need to hold her harshly enough to hurt her, though he'll endure the chip-borne agony if he must.

"When was the last time you slept, pet?"

She is taken aback, but she lies as smoothly as she can. "Last night."

He raises one eyebrow. Does she really think he can't tell? He's a predator, with senses that can easily spot weaknesses like fatigue. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Red, you might be able to fool the others, but me? For shame. If you've slept in the last week, I'm a souled poof with a taste for too much hair gel."

She comes clean, angry, but clean. "When do I have time to sleep, Spike? When? When Dawn doesn't need me or Tara and I aren't arguing or when the house isn't a mess or when the Buffybot doesn't need fixing or when you or Xander or Giles don't need to cry on my shoulder? Because that time never comes. There is _always_ something I need to be doing, or worrying about, or planning for. It doesn't stop, Spike, and neither can I."

"You need to sleep."

"I know!" She's screaming now, this close to breaking down. Which is exactly what she needs to do - break down and let go. "But I can't. I can't."

Within seconds she's in Spike's arms, sobbing brokenly. "I'm letting her down, Spike. I'm letting her down."

Buffy. The one they both idolize, both miss, both love. The one who is gone. The one whose life and mission and family Willow is doing everything to tend.

"You're not, pet. You're not."

"Yes, I am. If she were here, no one would be falling apart and I feel like if I was more like her, everything would be better. But I'm not her, and no matter how hard I try, I can't _be_ her."

He holds her tightly, letting her know she won't fall. "No, you're not her. You're you, and that's a wonderful thing. Believe me, no one could do a better job than you've done and none of us thanks you or gives you half enough credit, but you're amazing, luv." He kisses the top of her head. "Time to rest now. I'm here and everything will be all right 'til you wake up."

She looks up into his eyes, her own wide with longing. "Really?"

"Yeah, really. Promise."

She's asleep in his arms before he's even carried her down to his bed. She looks so peaceful and he hopes her head is full of happy dreams. But if there are nightmares, he'll be there to chase them away. After all, he promised her that everything would be all right, and he's always been a man of his word. He stares at her as time passes and the rise and fall of her chest is all the movement there is in the room. Maybe William isn't so far away after all.

The End.


	2. Lay Me Down

It seems like forever since Willow was here, asleep in Spike's bed, his arms, but it's really only been a couple of months. How much things have changed. And how little _any_ of them have slept.

She's more an outcast than he is now, abandoned by her lover and distrusted by all of her friends, lost and alone and still so sleepless. One thing hasn't changed though: he's still the only one who notices. This time, though, he's just been watching her decline and doing nothing to halt or even slow it. That fact is only one of the many things he hates himself for now.

Actually, there's another thing that hasn't changed: she's still expected to shoulder an impossible load. To cook and clean and keep the house from falling apart all the while she's crumbling to bits before pair after pair of unseeing eyes. He wonders if anyone will care when she does, at least in a way other than being irritated with her for leaving them to carry the burdens she's kept from weighing them down.

Not that Spike's any better than the rest of them; no, he's not fooling himself. If he _could_ see himself in the mirror right now, he's not too sure he'd want to look, to see the face of a man who's rather a pathetic hypocrite right now. If Willow hurt Dawn (and she did), well, in the end, how much worse than the rest of them is she really? It's not as if they all have done such a splendid job for the girl...or for each other...or for anyone else.

And those thoughts take him right where he doesn't want to go - straight to Buffy. The woman he loves. The woman for whom he's sacrificing his heart, his body, his pride, his everything. The woman he's been deluding himself into believing he's helping with all his pain and suffering. The woman who is colder and less human than the Buffybot he'd had built to tide him over 'til he got the real thing.

If he'd only known.

He's pathetic. Maybe more pathetic than all the rest of them put together. Perhaps Buffy's right. Perhaps he _is_ beneath her.

But that thought, surprisingly, leaves him long before it can take root in belief. Something in him, something that isn't him, but wiser than him, says that's not true. The memory of someone trusting him enough to guard the world while she rested tells him that there's something fine and decent within him, something that isn't weak or poncey for all that it's so unlike the demon he's made himself through force of will and decades of effort, and that it's something he can be again if he really wants to reach inside himself and pull it out. That maybe that very thing can help him save the girl who helped him find it to begin with.

The chance to prove himself comes far sooner than he expected.

"Spike?" Her voice is weak with fatigue and something larger than insomnia has drained the strength out of even the marrow of her bones. She sounds like someone fragile who might shatter into pieces should he touch her.

He climbs the ladder from his lonely bed and goes to see her. He doesn't think about the fact that Buffy will more than likely be here soon. He'll deal with that when it happens.

"Red." He looks her over and sees that he was right. She could be knocked down by the barest breeze. He hates himself again for letting her get to such a state. Shagging his heart's desire's not a good enough excuse, not nearly a good enough excuse, for neglecting a friend, even a friend who's made some pretty big mistakes.

"Is Buffy here? I was on my way home and...I didn't see her, and I thought maybe she might be here and I kind of...I just..." She's lost in her words. It reminds him so much of the girl she used to be and it's all he can do not to humiliate himself by crying. Especially since - he doesn't know how or why - he understands what she's trying to say.

"Temptation's easier to resist when there are witnesses about."

He meant for the words to be reassuring, for her to see that he gets it - what she's going through. But she doesn't.

"Gee, Spike. Let's look down on the junkie and how weak she is, how she can't spend hours in a magic shop without feeling the need to do just one little spell. I'm pathetic. I get it. Sorry to bother you." She stumbles as she tries to leave, hurting and sad and convinced he was mocking her.

He catches her before she falls and holds her close, her weak struggles to get away leaving him at no risk of hurting her and setting off the chip. "Now, pet, you know I didn't mean it like that. We're friends, aren't we?"

"Are we?" Her eyes are full of suspicion and questions. He can't blame her for either. "It's not like we've really talked since..."

"We slept together." He interrupts her, trying to make her smile. It doesn't work.

"We didn't...oh, you were joking. I get it." But she doesn't. Not really. She thinks he's sloughing her off, making light of her feelings.

"You're tired," he says, a seeming _non sequitur_ that he's hoping will get them back on track, or on track at all, or...something - something better than this endless loop of misunderstandings they're running on like hamsters on a wheel, getting nowhere at a great rate.

"Yeah, well, being a pariah kind of takes it out of a girl." She shakes her head, obviously worried that she's said the wrong thing. "I didn't mean...I mean, I get why everyone's mad at me and they're right..."

"No, pet, they're not." Spike cuts her off at the pass. Might as well get right to being that friend she needs, and besides, he's telling the truth. She's more than done her penance. It's not like she's done anything the rest haven't equaled or bettered. If Willow only knew where Saint Buffy was on all those nights she was supposed to be patrolling, all those nights she _wasn't_ home with the sister who was suffering and growing bitter in her absence...

"You don't mean that." Dawn's not the only one who's bitter, it seems. And Willow's no more wrong for being that way.

"I do. I know I've done a lousy job of being your pal, but I'm a demon and we're not much for hanging out or chatting over coffee and..." He stops when he sees Willow's expression come over grey and sad and nostalgic. What did he say?

She can tell what he's thinking and she answers the question that remains on the tip of his tongue. "It's just that...what you said...about coffee...it just reminded me of something I said to Angel a really long time ago."

"You asked the poof out for coffee?" The words emerge before he can stop them and he hopes he doesn't sound as jealous as he feels. And why does he feel jealous anyway? He's got Buffy, doesn't he? Willow can have a dozen crushes on anyone she wants for all it's any of his business. After all, her bird kicked her to the curb, didn't she now? It's just...not something he needs to worry about. Probably just felt a twinge because thinking of Angel at all makes him vaguely nauseous, that's it.

Willow's faded chuckle shakes the sticky web of thoughts from his head. "No. I yelled at him for not taking _Buffy_ out for coffee. It was back in the days before we knew his soul could...you know. I was all on board the 'Buffy and Angel Forever' train back then. Just another thing I was wrong about." She sighs; it's a self-deprecating, sad little sound.

"Angel's such a brooding, silent git. By the time you hear enough from him to know what an utter prat he is, it's too late. You should have just asked me about him. I'd have warned you off proper."

This time, her laughter is brighter. "Thanks, Spike. But I somehow don't think we'd have trusted your opinion. The fact that you were always trying to kill us might have diminished your credibility."

He smiles at her and she smiles back. It's not quite the smile he remembers, but it's real and there are teeth and the corners of her mouth stay upturned for more than a few seconds, so it counts as a win as far as he's concerned. "Wanna take a load off, pet? Come downstairs and rest for a bit before heading home?"

She's about to say no, he can tell, and he can't let that happen. He just can't. He knows he's asking for trouble, that Buffy will be here soon and that this could complicate all of their lives in ways none of them are ready to handle, but he can't help himself - Willow has to stay.

"Remember what I said last time?"

"Every word." The words are almost whispered, but there is truth there, strong and pure, and again Spike finds himself close to tears.

"It's the same now, luv. I'm here. Everything will be alright."

She holds out her hand, trust in each slim finger. He knows he's making a promise if he takes it, a promise far beyond watching over her while she sleeps. It's a terrifying responsibility. But in seconds, the choice makes itself and her hand is in his as he guides her down the ladder.

She lies down on the bed and he curves his body around hers. She's not as warm as she once was, but no matter. Someday, someday soon, she will be. He'll see to that.

"Night, Spike," she says drowsily, asleep almost before she finishes speaking. He strokes her hair as she softly snores. What he'll do when Buffy comes, he has no idea. But until then he will drown himself in the peace of these moments, in the silkiness of Willow's hair, and in the smile he can still see teasing the corners of her mouth as she finally rests.

There will be trouble tonight, but it won't touch the girl in his arms. He promises her that, though she knows nothing of it.

The minutes pass. Willow dreams.

The End


	3. Falling Awake

It's not nearly long enough before the very visitor he feared makes her presence known. He hears her steps and catches her scent seconds before her voice rings out.

"Spike?" It's Buffy, of course.

He's up the ladder in a trice, hoping she hasn't woken Willow. "Keep your voice down, will ya?" He keeps an ear open. Willow's breathing is steady and he's comforted by the fact that she's still asleep.

"Why?" Buffy asks, not nearly as softly as she should. He winces at the noise. It seems to echo off the walls.

Her scent lets him know why she's there, though it's not as if he was deluded enough to think it was a social call. The need is rolling off her in waves he's amazed humans can't smell – sharp and tangy and desperate. She wants it, that thing he can give her that she says no one else can, that thing that comes attached to a love she doesn't want and claims doesn't even exist, that thing he's as eager as she is to keep secret from the girl currently sleeping in his bed. Funny that now he's as ashamed as Buffy is of what they're doing.

"We're not alone," he says – softly, hoping she'll finally get the hint.

She's all deer-in-the-headlights now, her hands stopped halfway to the hem of her shirt. Funny how much her tendency to get right to business bothers him now. Did it before?

"Who's here?" Angry stage whisper. Is that the best she can do by way of discretion?

He should lie, he knows, but the truth comes out before he can think to stop himself. "Willow."

"What?" She's half whispering, half shouting now. "What is she doing here?"

"Sleeping, if you haven't woken her up. "

"Spike, if this is some pathetic attempt to make me jealous…"

Is it? He wonders… "Don't get your knickers in a twist. It's not like that. Chit was worn out after a hard day and she needed to get some sleep, that's all."

"And she just had to get it in a crypt?"

He's insulted now. Of course, logically, he realizes that as far as Buffy knows, he and Willow aren't at all close, but he can't help but be pained by her dismissal of the possibility that they're friends. What does she think was going on while she was in Heaven? Does she think that everyone and everything stayed exactly as it was when she left?

She told him once that she could see things from there, that she saw that everyone was okay, but they weren't, so what does it mean? He wonders…was she in Heaven at all? And if she was, was her Gift an extension of the one she's always possessed: that supernatural ability to see the world as she wants to see it?

"No, Slayer," he says that last word with contempt, "She needed to be with a friend."

"A friend? If that's what she needs, then why isn't she…?"

"At your house? Like I said, she needed to be with a _friend_."

"And I'm supposed to believe you've suddenly become her best bud? Newsflash, Spike: I'm her friend, Xander's her friend. You? You're not her friend. You're not anyone's friend."

Not long ago, maybe only hours, he would have taken those words as truth, sucked the poisonous meat from their bones and let it fill him. Not now, not with the memory of the softness of Willow's hair still caressing the tips of his fingers, not with the ghost of her smile still tugging at the corners of his lips. She's his, his…charge. She's his to watch over and his to defend. That makes him her friend, right? At least it makes him something to her, something more than Buffy and Xander have been in maybe as long as he's been part of this ragtag band of do-gooders.

He's heard lots of warm and affectionate stories of bygone years, but nothing he's been witness to measures up to them. Where are the nights of Indian TV and ice cream now?

"I'm _her_ friend. Ask her. I'm sure she'll tell you. Not like she's ashamed of it." That last is a not-at-all-subtle dig at Buffy's own self-loathing for needing a demon to scratch that pesky itch between her thighs, the itch that curls in her belly and tingles along the curve of her breasts, the itch that makes her scream and wail and beg for pain, beg to feel, the itch she hates Spike for soothing after it all.

"I'm not arguing with you. Wake her up, tell her I came here looking for her or something. I'll take her home, and then I'll come back and we can…"

"Fuck? I don't think you heard me before. Slayer hearing not what it used to be? I said she's sleeping, and I'm not waking her up just so I can service you. Go home, tuck Dawn in, watch the telly, have a chat with Xander, whatever. Willow is staying here tonight."

"Spike, wake her up." She's doing her best to sound menacing, but he's not buying what she's trying to sell.

"Or what? You'll stake me? Don't think so, pet." He's leering at her now, eyes raking her over in the dim light. He knows she can feel the slide of his gaze. "You still need me, like it or not. I'm the one with the what-for to make threats here. I can _hurt_ you," he says, hand gently caressing her arm, letting her know by the way his voice lingers over the word 'hurt' that he means so much more than his ability to leave bruises on her taut, toned body. "Go home. Tomorrow I'll give you a good seeing-to."

Her eyes are wide with frustration and he knows it's more than her unsatisfied body that's as taut as a bowstring and ready to snap. But she goes, a few mumbled curses marking her departure and a threat of "this isn't over" that she doesn't realize is emptier than the part of her soul that once held her humanity.

He loves her, doesn't he?

That's a question he doesn't even want to ponder right now. All he wants is to get back downstairs and lie beside the soft, sweet girl who trusts him more than anyone has in longer than even he can remember.

"Spike." Her voice stops him halfway down the ladder. Curse him for an oblivious fool. She's awake. He wonders how long that's been so.

"Willow, I…"

"That was Buffy." Her voice is clipped and sharp.

"That it was."

"You and she are…"

"Shagging." No point in lying, he can hear the tears struggling to stop her tongue. She heard it all, or what it amounts to all, anyway.

"I…I better go."

He can see her moving across the bed, trying to find her way to the ladder, the ladder he's blocking. He's not going to let her leave. "Why? You heard. I sent her home."

"Yeah, but…"

"But what? You heard. I told her to go home and I told her you were staying. Don't want to make a liar out of me, do you?"

"Spike, I…"

"I know." He crawls over to her, surprising her at first when he touched her. She doesn't move away. Something about that makes him happier than it should. Another thing to save to think about sometime that isn't now. "You have questions."

"Yeah, or maybe…I don't know."

"You don't know if you have questions?" That seems more than out of character. How much could trouble with magick have done to her?

"No, I have questions, I just…"

"Don't know if you should ask them?" That's more like it. His Willow is still there.

Best not to think about possessive pronouns right now.

He wonders exactly what she wants to know. With most people he could guess, but Willow isn't most people. She's curious, yes, but always about something slightly off-center from the track on which other people's questions run. Who knows what she'll say when she finds her tongue?

"Why?" she asks, not doing much at all to illuminate her thought processes. She could be asking about anything.

He stays silent, hoping she'll get the point and flesh out that one word query. She doesn't. Her eyes just stay wide and confused as she tries to find his face in the gloom. Should he light a candle?

"Why what?" He finally replies, impatient, though he isn't sure why. Habit, most likely.

"Why is it a secret? Why didn't you guys tell us that you're seeing each other?"

What on Earth had made him want to know what she was wondering about? Of all the questions she could have asked…

Well, there's no law that says he has to answer her. And as rude as it is, he isn't going to, isn't going to open a vein so she can savor the sight of him bleeding.

The silence goes on, this time for longer than when she'd initiated it, but finally her voice breaks it into shards that glint in the absent light, waiting to cut him.

"Spike?" She sounds afraid, small and helpless in the dark.

"Yeah, pet." He hates himself – for making her feel like he did, for ascribing to her a cruelty she'd never displayed to him. She'd hurt him, of course, but never on purpose…no, there'd never been intent.

"I guess you don't want to answer that."

He could kiss her at this moment. It might have been an easy supposition to make, but that doesn't mean that anyone but her would have thought of it, that anyone but her would have cared enough. "Not really, no."

"I'm tired," she says. It comes out of the blue, but it is a gift and he gratefully accepts it.

"Want to go back to sleep now?"

"Is that okay? Because if you want to talk…" Bless her for taking it on, for making sleep her need instead of his fervent wish.

"It's alright. There's always time to talk."

"Thanks, Spike." She lies down and curls up against the pillows once more. He curves his body around hers.

He waits for her breathing to slow and even out. It takes a bit longer than her words might have suggested, but not by much. He strokes her hair and wonders what she's dreaming.

Yes, there will be time to talk, and time to think, but that time isn't now. Talking and thinking, like rain, could go away. Come again some other day. Some other, far away day. If he could just have tomorrow, and a little more, to pretend – to pretend that she doesn't know, to pretend that he isn't degraded, to not think about Buffy and what is really going on between them, to just be in a bubble with Willow where they could be friends. Just tomorrow…and maybe a little more.

He isn't a fool, though, he knows that tomorrow will soon be today and that today is always far too real. He'll have to tell Willow something tomorrow. He'll have to see Buffy tomorrow. He'll have to deal with the way two worlds that should never have met have collided.

That is then, though. Right now, he can get lost in the softness of Willow's hair and the noises she makes as she sleeps. It isn't a tomorrow all his own desire, but it is something, after all.

The End


	4. Dream a Little Dream

It's the shaking that wakes him.

She's still asleep, but her body is jerking and there's a fine sheen of sweat covering her. The whimpering becomes a keening as he holds her and tries to soothe her through whatever this is without waking her. It doesn't work. She's caught in the grip of something frightening and painful and there's nothing to be done but rouse her.

"Willow," he says, trying to keep his town soothing even as he begins to panic. She's near to convulsing and he's scared. "Willow." Louder this time.

It seems to reach her. The movements of her body slow and she starts to come awake. The fear is pouring off her in waves. "Am I burning?" she asks.

"No, pet. You're just fine. Spike's here. I told you nothing could happen to you while you were with me, remember?"

She nods slowly, the whites of her eyes shining in the dark. He considers lighting a candle for her, but then thinks better of it. She's obviously had a nightmare about fire. Lighting a match would be a terrible idea right now.

"Want to talk about it?" he asks.

"No," she answers. He knows she will anyway, though, and a moment later she proves him right. "I…they hate me, Spike. Buffy and Xander and…and Tara. They hate me. They'll never forgive me. I was dreaming…I was dying and they just watched and they wouldn't help me. It hurts. It hurts so much. Tara doesn't love me anymore."

He doesn't really know what to say. She's sobbing now, her tears warm and wet against his chest as he holds her close. What is he supposed to tell her? That they'll forgive her someday very soon? That Tara still loves her? Are any of those things true?

Does he even want them to be?

He hates himself for even thinking that last thought, but that doesn't make it any less valid a question. The day her girlfriend takes her back, the day Buffy and Xander decide that they've been holier than thou for long enough – well, that's the day Willow no longer needs Spike, now, isn't it?

He murmurs to her soothingly, nonsense like "there, there." Nothing substantial, just words to let her know he's there and that he's taking care of her.

It seems to help. Soon her sobs go quiet as he holds her and strokes her hair. He likes this – always has - more than he should, more than any friend should enjoy the pain of someone they're supposed to care about. It's not her pain he enjoys, though. It's the way she needs him, the way he can make the world go away and leave her be in a way no one else can.

It's not an insight he needs to have. He doesn't want to think about the fact that he's good for Willow in a way he'll never be good for Buffy, that the peace he gives the girl he's holding is something far removed from the brutally momentary oblivion he can thrust into the Slayer.

"You love her, don't you?" The voice is soft but it somehow catches his attention.

Hesitation. Why? Why isn't he answering her question instantly with an emphatic 'yes'?

But he doesn't. He stays silent for a moment that stretches and aches before he finally replies. "Yeah." Now there's a ringing declaration of undying devotion.

"Oh." What Willow means by that, Spike has no idea. Her mind is a strange place. He pictures a bog – full of mists and shadows and lurking creatures. A beautiful, dangerous world of mysteries.

She asks another question. "Why?"

He can see her eyes, wide and guileless in the gloom and he knows there's no malice or artfulness in her query. She simply wants to know, the way she wants to know everything. The problem is, _he_ doesn't know. Should he? Or is love simply something that _is - _a thing that, like the religion he forsook long ago, depends entirely on faith?

He figures she's past her nightmare well enough and he needs light, something to look at besides those eyes. He lets go of her briefly and reaches over to light a candle. The act also buys him time. He can wait as she adjusts to the sudden change, can try and find some way to answer her question that isn't that religion argument.

There isn't any other explanation though, so he gives in and offers what he has. "Don't know, pet, I just do." He's curious, however, to test his theory, so he turns the tables. "Why do you love Tara?"

He is inexplicably angry when Willow replies. "Because she's kind, because she's caring. She's so sweet and soft and perfect. She's my girl." She has reasons. Fantasies, as far as Spike's concerned, since 'weak and cowardly and holier-than-thou' fit the girl far better in his eyes, but they are Willow's reasons and her own are the eyes that she sees Tara through.

Why is he so upset, anyway? And since when has he thought about Tara enough to dislike her? He's never held a real conversation with the stuttering witch and it's never occurred to him to form an opinion about her one way or the other – not until now.

He hates her. No real reason for it and certainly no justification that he could ever be comfortable with, but yes, he hates her. It's every bit as uncomfortable and wrong as his love for the Slayer and he's starting to feel disgustingly like Angel with all these complicated emotions. Any minute now he'll start brooding and he just might have to stake himself.

"What are you thinking about?" Willow asks after a time.

"Love," which is sort of right and a lot wrong but it's a believable answer and no one ever said demons told the truth anyway. If Willow expects pure sincerity from him, she's too naïve to bother with.

She sits up and looks everywhere but at him and he's disconcertingly aware that she _isn't_ that naïve. But it's Willow and she's not going to challenge him. He wishes she would. Fighting would be familiar and he feels so hopelessly lost right now. If she'd just do something wrong, _be_ something wrong…

"She doesn't love you." And now, at last, she has. Or he tells himself that, anyway, preferring not to accept that it's true and no friend would say anything different. He ignores the consoling hand on his arm and the kind, warm tone of her voice.

"Doesn't love you either, now does she? Neither does your girl. That doesn't change anything, does it?"

"No, it doesn't," she says and he wants to hold his hands over his ears to block out the sound of her shattering. But he's the one who's broken her and he deserves no such relief.

"I'm sorry, pet. I didn't mean it." He tries to put his arms around her again, but she's stone and he lets her go quickly.

"Yes, you did. And it's true. So it's okay." But it's not okay. It's not even thoughtless. It's cruel and vindictive and mean and damaging and all the things she was hiding from in his bed.

"It's not okay. I was a bastard for saying it, true or no."

"I was just as bad, so…"

"No you weren't. You said what you did to be kind. I said what I did to hurt you. Not the same thing."

He's a bit surprised at himself, but the look on her face makes him glad he said what he just did. She looks like a child who's seen the faintest glimpse of Santa's boot disappearing up the chimney. She's not sure, but maybe she believes – believes that she has a real friend who cares and who'll be fair to her.

"Thanks." It's said softly, but it's amazing how powerful that one short word can be.

"No need." But there is need – yawning, aching, ravenous need – need that rivals his hunger for blood.

"I'm still grateful." He doesn't think she simply means what he just admitted. "She _should_ love you, you know, if that helps. Because you're worth loving."

What is he supposed to say to that? She's wrong, of course, and he hates her for believing it. It's not something you say to someone when you're not just throwing empty words around – not someone like him, anyway.

"Yeah, well, she'll come around. How could she not? Handsome bloke like me. Chit would be mad not to love me."

"She would," Willow agrees quietly. She 's serious and it's almost more than he can bear.

He wants to tell her she's loveable herself. It's true, so true, but she'll never believe it now. She'll think he's saying it because it's what you're supposed to say to someone when they've said it to you. Like saying 'you're welcome' after someone says 'thank you.' A ritual return of words as automatic as a sneeze and just as meaningful.

"Thanks," she says again, and he knows somehow that she's thanking him for not saying those words. How pathetic and miserable is it that she's thankful for what she believes is a surcease of insincerity.

"Nothing to thank me for." This time he means it.

"Yeah, there is."

Nothing really to be said to that. Even he thinks that arguing about nothing would be wrong right now. At least with her. If anyone else showed up, he'd happily fight tooth and nail over the exact shade of blue of those summer skies he sees now and again in his dreams.

"We're a pair, aren't we?" He's trying to be flip, but it doesn't come off. Somewhere between intention and tongue, the light tone vanished and the question sounds real and nothing like banter.

"Yeah, we are." That sounds real, too, and Spike realizes there's a tear in his eye, but it's nothing to do with being glad she's here and wanting to believe it's her and him against the whole bloody world. It's ash from the candle is all. He only cries for Buffy and only when she hurts him.

"You're beautiful, you know," he says, though he means something different; he just doesn't know what that is. He puts his finger to her lips when she goes to contradict him. "'M too tired to argue with you."

She stares at him in that inscrutable way again, but she doesn't fight him when he lies back down and pulls her along with him. He reaches over and snuffs out the candle. His instincts tell him the sun is rising outside, but it's night eternal down here and he can't lose her in the dark. She's his friend, his best friend, his only friend, and there's nothing going on back at Buffy's house that requires her more than he does now – always.

He loves Buffy, he repeats to himself like a mantra in a voice only he can hear. So it doesn't mean a thing that it's Willow with whom he feels peace.

The End.


	5. Insomnia

Buffy is riding him, eyes closed as she pleasures herself. She's beautiful, there's no doubt of that. Her body taut and toned and smoothly muscled, the tan of her skin contrasting against his own pallor where they're joined. It's almost a pity he lacks Angel's ability to immortalize this with charcoal and parchment, because he's sure they're a vision of erotic beauty.

But Slayers are always beautiful and it could be any one of them in his bed right now. It would be just the same - emotionless, robotic sex. Funny thing about irony…it's always where you least expect it. Spike built himself a Buffybot and now Buffy has turned him into a Spikebot – service the girl, that's what he's programmed to do.

She picks up the pace and he's expected to match her, so he does. Groans and grunts and the sound of flesh hitting flesh, all building to a crescendo. Then it's over and he barely notices. He really _is_ a Spikebot now, unaware and unfeeling. It's terrifying to a sensualist such as he. How could this have happened?

She rolls off of him and after a moment she's tense. It takes a few seconds for him to realize it's because he's not following the script. There are no professions of love from him, no fond looks; he's as still and blank and cold as she herself usually is.

"What's the matter?" she asks, unusually perceptive as she traces patterns on his chest.

"Nothing," he replies, though "everything" would be more truthful.

"I better get home." She's apparently bored with trying to be understanding.

"Good idea." And that upsets her still more. She gets dressed in an obvious huff and he is pretty sure that she wants to ask about Willow, to find out if this is all Willow's fault. She doesn't dare, though, for fear it will make him think she cares for him. She needn't worry. He's long past that fantasy now.

So why is he still being a good little Spikebot?

She says something and he says something back though he has no idea what. He's not even listening to himself. He's too caught up in wondering what in the name of all that's unholy is happening to him. She's gone before he registers the sound of the crypt door closing just a touch too firmly, as if she thought better of herself and grabbed it before it slammed shut but not in time to make it seem per-fect-ly normal.

A few moments later, the door opens again.

"What's the matter? You forget your knickers?" he calls out, looking around to see what discarded article has brought Buffy back to his crypt.

"No," the reply comes. It isn't Buffy.

Cursing under his breath, he pulls his jeans on and heads up the ladder.

"Hey." As greetings go, it's not eloquent or charming, but he's frankly humiliated at being caught right after a session of 'shag the Slayer'. This isn't the man he wants Willow to see.

"Hey." She feels as awkward as he does, obviously. No surprise. The place reeks of sex and there's not a chance she doesn't know what she nearly interrupted. "I…I saw Tara tonight and I just kind of needed to get away, you know?"

"That bad, eh?"

She nods without speaking and instinct makes him go to her and wrap her in his arms. She starts to cry. "I love her so much, Spike. Why can't she forgive me?"

"I don't know, pet," he replies, and it's true. Hell, Willow's done as much to him as she's ever done to Tara and he's forgiven her already. Still he can't help but be glad that the stuttering milksop is still on her high horse. No more visits from Willow, after all, once she and Glinda are playing house again.

He won't think about hating Tara and why and wherefore and what it all means, because it doesn't mean anything except that he thinks his best and only friend could do so much better.

Spike is in love with Buffy.

"You've been with Buffy tonight," she says after sobbing a little while longer.

"Yeah. It's pretty much a nightly thing."

"Except for…"

"Except for when you were here."

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be. You needed me more than she did." What he doesn't say out loud is that he needed Willow just as much. He needs her now, too. He wonders what would happen if he broke down. Would she hold him close and whisper softly to him? Tell him that everything would be alright? Would she care for him the way she cared for Tara when Glory sucked the mind right out of her and left her a useless, pathetic shell?

"I don't want to cause you any trouble."

"Don't worry about it. I've always liked a spot of trouble." He's glib and smirking and it's not at all how he feels, but he's uncomfortable and devil-may-care is the disguise he likes best.

"Okay," she says, unsure and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She can't stay here tonight and they both know it. He would never want her to sleep on Slayer-stained sheets and there's no way to change them while she's here without addressing what finished right before her arrival. Somehow the idea of talking any more about the sex he just had with Willow's erstwhile best friend seems rather unseemly and not a little vulgar. It's bad enough she knows as much as she does.

When did Spike start worrying about such things? Or rather, when did he start worrying about them _again_?

When Buffy reminds him of who he was as a human, he is ashamed of the craven, foolish creature he was. It's funny, but Willow brings William forth in ways that don't make him feel ashamed at all. He feels chivalrous and gentlemanly and glad to have those things within him to give to a girl who needs them as much as ever Buffy needed the blossoming bruises that heat up that all-important place between her thighs and the hard fuck that soothes the burn.

"Want to take a walk?" Spike's suggestion is met with a sigh, though whether it's relief or resignation behind it, he can't tell. Willow's downcast expression isn't as much help as he'd like. "Gimme a sec to put a shirt on, okay?"

She nods and he heads down the ladder, garbing himself in a trice and heading back up before she can decide that she's been too much bother and leave, forcing him to chase her down. Not that he wouldn't, but he'd rather not have to convince her that he wants her around. It hurts him too badly to see just how little regard she has for herself.

She's still there. Good. "Where should we go?" he asks conversationally, and she shrugs. "Well then, we'll just start walking and see where we end up, shall we?" He tries to sound chipper and bright and it comes closer to forced and pathetic.

Before he can think about what he's doing, he takes her hand and they head out into the unwelcoming Sunnydale night.

"Do you ever miss Drusilla?" Willow asks. It's a rather desultory question, but then again, maybe not.

"No," he answers. It's true. He might miss the old days, the days she happened to be a part of, but no, he doesn't miss her. It's hard to regret one woman's poor treatment when you're being ill-used by another.

"Really?" Her eyes have an oddly hopeful look in them and it takes Spike by surprise. But he thinks he understands. His answer makes her think that perhaps, somehow, she'll get over Tara someday. She's thinking of a time when she won't tell herself that bedtime story of an eventual happily ever after anymore.

"Yeah." She can see the sincerity in the line of his jaw and hear it in his voice. It's the _true_ happy ending she's looking for and he's glad to give it to her.

"Do you trust me?" she asks. Another bolt from the blue and Spike's heart is fit to break.

"Of course." Absolute truth and he hopes she realizes it.

"No one else does."

"Yeah, well, no one else has a bit of sense. I can see you've stayed off the magick and I'm damn proud of you for that. You made a mistake or two, and okay, maybe they weren't small, but we all screw up from time to time and…yeah, I trust you."

"Thank you." Her voice is low and dispirited and he wonders if maybe he should have lied and told her that, like everyone else, he expects her to jump through ever smaller, higher hoops. His answer is costing her something, something she values. She has _him_, but weeks with Buffy make him wonder just what that's worth. Not much, he decides.

But maybe there is a way he can be the friend she deserves. Save a life worth so much more than she thinks. "Can I ask you a question, pet?"

"Sure." She's cautious, but curious as to what he wants to know.

"Why do you stay here? A smart girl like you – there must have been universities lined up begging for you to attend. Why didn't you go? Why don't you go now? Be better than staying here playing everyone's whipping boy and waiting for them to get tired of making you pay."

He should have known better then to ask that. She rounds on him, yanking her hand out of his. "Tired of me, Spike? Or are you just worried I'll ruin your cozy little affair with Buffy by shooting my mouth off?"

"That's not what I meant and you know it." But is he being entirely truthful? He's not tired of her or worried, but maybe a part of him wants her gone, wants her to leave while she still thinks he's good and decent and deserving of her friendship…before she finds out that he's…

Beneath her.

"Do I, Spike?" There are tears in those wide, green eyes now and he feels worse than the night Cecily spurned him.

He decides to try the truth. If she turns it against him, well, it won't be anything he doesn't merit, now will it? "I just hate seeing you stay here, getting used, getting beaten down…just think you could do better somewhere that isn't here, y'know?"

"I'd still be me, no matter where I went. I'd still be the girl who screws up, who almost killed Dawn, who took everyone's memories…the girl who ripped Buffy out of heaven. No matter where I go, that's who I'll always be."

If Spike thought his heart was breaking before, he knows he was wrong…because it's breaking now. He wonders if it's such a bad thing not to have a reflection because he's sure he would never want to see what she sees.

He reaches for her and pulls her to him, not caring that they've somehow wandered to the Summers' house and anyone could see. "That's not who you are. Maybe it's what you've done, but it's nothing to do with who you are. You're…you're special and good. Much too good for the lot of us, and maybe that's what made you do what you did. I don't know. But I do know that you're an amazing woman, Willow. And you deserve so much more than what you get here."

She starts to cry as he holds her. She doesn't believe him, isn't even close to it, but maybe someday he'll convince her. In the meantime he holds her until her eyes are dry and she's ready to go inside. For his part, he thinks he'll never be ready to let her go, but under the circumstances…

He'll see her again soon. But until then, he's sure she won't be the only one unable to sleep.

The End


	6. Dream Catcher

It's been several days – well, maybe only two, but it feels like more – since Spike held Willow in front of Buffy's house and let her cry, since he tried to convince her that she deserved more than she was getting. It didn't work, of course, not that he expected it to, because she's still in town , still doing her best to pay debts at usurious interest rates, still waiting for Tara to take her back, still not sleeping.

She hasn't come to him though. No, the only woman in his bed has been Buffy, and she doesn't sleep either…not that Spike wants that from her. It's not calm or quiet with her. She makes him restless. He didn't always think that was a bad thing and he's not sure why his feelings changed, but they have and there's no getting away from it.

He still loves her though, he is confident of that. No man would ever let a woman do what he's let her do to him, would ever strip himself as bare, leave himself as open, as he has for her unless it came from something true and pure and noble. It's love – as passionate as ever he felt for Cecily or Drusilla – because it can't be anything else.

So what then, he thinks as he waits for daylight to fade, is Willow to him? Why is it her that he misses most when his bed is empty and no heartbeat thrums in his crypt?

She's his friend, that's what, and if the ache is sharp when she's not there it's only because it's been longer since he's had a friend then a lover, if he's ever even truly had a friend before. She's unique in his experience and that's what makes her so precious.

He wishes he hadn't washed the sheets she last slept in. Her scent would be comforting.

Just as he's about to search about, hoping to find something she held or touched the last time she was here, he's got another visitor.

"Bit," he says, not bothering to hide his surprise as he climbs the ladder to greet her, "What brings you here?" She stands with her arms akimbo; he can tell she's not here for a social call and he's nervous.

"I saw you."

Saw him? Saw him what? Bugger! If Buffy finds out her sister knows anything, he'll be staked for sure. "It's not what you think. Your sister and I…"

"I thought you loved her," Dawn shrieks.

Huh? Okay, this might not be about what he thought this was about. Best to tread carefully. "I do."

"Oh really?" Her voice is scornful now and she's in quite a pet. "So what are you doing with Willow?"

Willow? Is this about that hug in front of her house the other night? Again – bugger! But not as bad as if she'd spotted him shagging Buffy, now is it? "We're friends." He's playing it cautious.

"Yeah, because the groping thing in front of our house the other night was so friendly." She's glaring daggers at him and she looks like a kitten pretending to be a tiger. It would be cute under different circumstances.

"Wasn't groping her. It was a hug. Big difference there." He gives her his best soft, trustworthy expression. After all, he _is_ telling the truth. "Believe me, there's nothing going on between me and Willow." As he says it, he wonders why he feels as badly as if he were lying.

"It didn't look right." Dawn seems slightly convinced, but she's still miffed.

"Because you're still angry with Willow. You'd think anyone hugging her was wrong." He's blunt and it takes her by surprise.

"I wouldn't think it was wrong if it were Tara," she shoots back.

"Because you miss Tara. It's got nothing to do with Willow." He adds some kindness to his tone, softening the blunt edge of his words.

She opens her mouth but shuts it again and sighs in exasperation. "Things were better when Tara was there," she says after a time.

"Better for you," he responds. "Doesn't mean it was better for Willow."

She stares at him. "I knew it. You have a thing for her."

"Why does not thinking that Willow and Tara are the Team Pink version of Gable and Lombard mean that I have the hots for Red?" he asks, knowing he's being evasive and hoping Dawn's not sophisticated enough to notice.

"Gable and who?" Dawn asks. Looks like she's been drawn off on a tangent and he's in the clear. He's never been more grateful for the sad lack of classic film knowledge among the younger generation.

"Clark Gable and Carole Lombard. They were movie stars in the 30's. A love story for the ages 'til she died in a plane crash."

"Oh." Dawn looks puzzled, but only for a moment. He keeps forgetting she's not actually as young as she seems. "This is one of those times where you distract me with stuff so I won't know what's really going on, isn't it?"

Spike puts his arm around the girl for a moment and kisses the top of her head. "You're growing up. Getting too smart for your own good."

She glares at him. "And you still haven't answered me."

"Nothing to say. Willow and I are friends. That's it."

"You do remember that she's gay, right?"

"And what? That means I can't be her friend?" He's not going to bring up Oz or Chubs, because that would sabotage his argument that they're friends and only friends, but it is a bit ridiculous to pigeonhole the girl. She seems a bit more catholic in her tastes than that. Why should she have to bat for one team or the other?

"No…it's just…"

"Just what?"

"She loves Tara."

"Know that, don't I? What part of the word 'friend' is givin' you so much trouble?" He's starting to get irritated now, though he hates to be rude to his Bit.

"The part where you mean it. I know you guys all think I'm some dumb kid who doesn't know anything, but…"

"We don't think that."

"Yes, you do," she whines. "You, Buffy, Willow…you all think I'm a baby." She's pouting and it actually makes the opposite point from the one she's ostensibly arguing, not that Spike is going to say anything about it.

"We don't. It's just…we want to protect you. To keep you from seeing all the not-so-nice things in the world, you know?"

"In other words, you think I'm a baby who can't handle it."

He's exasperated now and there's nothing to be said that won't just keep this wretched argument going, but that doesn't mean he won't try. "Does your sister know where you are?" he asks.

A snort is his first answer. "Like she cares."

"Your sister loves you."

"Sure. That's why she'd rather spend all her time anywhere but with me. I'm amazed there's a single demon left in Sunnydale the way she spends every night hunting them."

Spike shifts his eyes quickly, not wanting her to see the flash of guilt in them. Buffy's been hunting only one demon most nights…her own. He hates himself more than ever before.

"She's the Slayer. Sort of comes with the territory."

"This 'friendship' with Willow…when did it start?" Spike's not the only one who can change the subject, it seems.

"While back. When Buffy was still…" He still can't say the word.

Dawn seems to have no such trouble. "Dead."

"Yeah. Then we kind of weren't too chummy for a bit, but now…"

"She's using you."

As much as he loves Dawn, it's all he can do not to slap her face for that. There's a woman who's twisting him every which way to serve her own ends, but that woman isn't Willow. "No," he says simply while his hands clench tight into fists, "She isn't."

"Of course she is. Why else would she suddenly be friends with you again now?"

Spike is the one who was just slapped. He can feel whatever passes for life within him drain away. He feels like a shell right now – a hollow, desiccated shell.

Dawn obviously realizes what she's said. "Spike. Oh my God! I'm sorry." She's touching him, or he thinks she is…he can't actually feel anything. "I didn't mean it like that. I mean, of course, anyone would want to be your friend. You're the coolest guy ever. It's just that Willow…"

"Go," he rasps, wanting her to be gone, wanting her to be gone before she said what she did…because really, she didn't say anything that wasn't true. Why _would_ Willow want to be his friend…want to be his anything?

"I'm sorry!"

"Go!" He yells it now, not caring that he's sent her running from his crypt in tears. He's glad it's daylight and she'll be safe on her own, but that's as much concern as he has to give right now, for all he's always cherished the girl.

He's down the ladder in a trice, tearing the room apart, looking for something, anything…

And he finds it. For all that today has been terrible, there's a pillowcase in a corner that smells of _her_. Maybe Dawn's right, maybe she doesn't really think of him as her friend, but this scrap of fabric will at least let him pretend. He can hold it and take in her scent and remember watching her as she slept right next to him.

There's even one strand of red hair left on it and Spike takes it reverently between his fingers, recalling the way it felt to run his hand through numberless strands. He'll save these things and if he never spends another happy night next to the girl he'll always think of as _his_ friend, no matter how she might feel, at least he'll have these things to remember…

He lays down on the bed, tucking the hair safely down in the bottom of the pillowcase, and he holds it close like a small boy clutching a favorite blanket. He inhales, forcing air into lungs that have no interest in it, exhales, does it over and over again. With Willow's scent living inside him, he falls asleep.

It's strange somehow, this fitful slumber, because it's been a long time since he's really had dreams, but he's having them now - dreams of Willow's hand stroking his cheek, and the soft splash of a tear falling against his lips. He wants to live in them forever. But something forces his eyes open and he wants to curse it until his eyes catch the glow of a candle and he realizes that it's really Willow's hair. And not just the strand from the bottom of the pillowcase.

"Dawn said you needed me," she says softly. There are tears swimming in her eyes and later he'll know that Dawn told her things that put them there. Right now all he knows is that her eyes are beautiful like this.

Maybe if he was fully awake, maybe if he wasn't so undone that thinking was a bit of a hardship, he wouldn't be doing this. Because after all, he loves Buffy and Willow is just…

But he's still the boy holding a pillowcase to lull himself to sleep and all he knows is that Willow is here.

He reaches for her. She doesn't move away.

He kisses her.

The End


	7. Tuneless Lullaby

Spike is kissing Willow.

It's a kiss like nothing he's ever known – soft and sweet where he's used to a bruising battle for dominance. It's not a heated hunger for some illusory passion, the meaty air with which he's fed himself for far too long; instead, it's something gentle, but more intense for all its deceptive fragility.

They part after a moment that couldn't be long enough were it to last the length of Spike's time as both human and demon. Her eyes are wide as she stares and he expects a protest, some sort of rebuke. It doesn't come.

"Wow," she says quietly, not meeting his eyes any longer.

"I'm sorry," he says, anticipating that rebuke still. Just because it hasn't come, that doesn't mean it won't. And perhaps it would have come were she not kind and trying not to cause him any more pain after his encounter with Dawn. _After Buffy_.

"Why?" Her eyes meet his again, full of questions and wounds. "Because I'm not Buffy?"

Is that what she thinks? "Because I'm not Tara," he replies.

She's staring at him again. "I kind of knew that."

"You love her."

"Yes." This might be the shortest answer he's ever heard from her. It's also the most painful word ever spoken, more cutting than any of Buffy's cruel barbs, for all he knew it before the word was said.

"Least you're honest." Oh yes, honesty…what a blessing it is. As sure as vampire was ever blessed by the stake that pierced his heart.

"Spike…I…I don't know what to say, I don't know what to do, I don't understand anything anymore."

Now she's crying and she's in his arms. This at least is familiar ground with the two of them, ground where she knows he can give and she'll take, not knowing he's taking more from her still. Again he marvels at how different this all is from what he shared with Drusilla or Angelus…from what he shares with Buffy.

"What did Dawn say?" he asks after a few minutes.

She struggles to compose herself, trying to pull away as she does. He doesn't let her. She can talk just as well with his arms around her as without. She doesn't resist strongly enough to set off his chip, but it wouldn't matter if she did. He'd suffer the pain and keep hanging on to her. She's about to destroy him; he can feel it. This will be the last time she is in his bed with him. He'll be damned worse than he already is if he doesn't fill these last moments with the sensation of her soft, warm body against his.

He's not wasting his time reminding himself that it's Buffy he loves.

"She didn't say much. Just told me you were hurt and you needed me. She was crying and I was kind of surprised that she was talking to me at all, so I didn't ask any questions."

It's a nice story and believable enough, but Willow should really know better than to lie to Spike. He's been doing it longer and knows liars better than she ever will. "I'd like to see the day when you don't ask a single question, Red," he says softly before rethinking his words. "No, I like your questions. But there's nothing Dawn could have done to keep you from wanting to know what was up, least of all shedding a few tears."

Willow says nothing, but he can feel her skin redden as he holds her in the dark room.

"C'mon. Tell ol' Spike what she said." He's trying for levity, though he's not sure why. It's a pretty inappropriate moment for it.

"She said that she told you that I was just using you." Willow's voice is shaking and the fear is rolling off her in waves. He suddenly realizes that she is terrified that he might believe that.

Maybe she loves Tara and maybe he loves Buffy, but there's something here anyway, something they're both afraid of losing. That something is more than friendship. "She said that. She did." He keeps stroking Willow's hair and she knows better than to try to break his hold on her. "It's not true though, is it?" He meant for that to be a statement, not a question, but it's too late now.

"Of course it's not true," she says, her voice high with worry masquerading as indignation.

"I know," he says. He didn't, but he's a better liar than she is and she's too relieved to see through it even if she weren't still as naïve down deep inside as she was when first they met.

"But she hurt you," Willow says, calm as death suddenly. Maybe she sees through his prevarication, but more likely she's shooting blindly in the dark, hoping she'll hit a target. He'll just have to scramble. After all, he'll always be better at this game than she is.

"Yeah, 'course she did. It hurt that Bit thought no one would want to be my friend unless they were using me."

"Is that what we are? We're friends?"

If his heart were working, it would have stopped cold the moment she asked that. What is he supposed to say? This is a trap; it must be a trap. He knew she'd destroy him. "Yeah, sure, aren't we?"

He smells the tears before he feels them against his shirt. "Yeah." She's limp in his arms now and he has a horrible feeling that it might not be him who's been destroyed.

He shifts slightly, not knowing what to do. Because some lies are wrong, even for him, but the truth is a horrible, dangerous thing. "We're that, yeah, but we're more than that, too," he says, so softly he wouldn't know she'd heard him if he didn't feel her head turn up to look into eyes she can only barely see in the gloom.

"We are," she says. Her voice is soft, too, but somehow there's a definite quality in it that nearly undoes him.

One of them is bound to ask the next question, but to his surprise, he doesn't even wait in the hopes that it's her. "So what about Tara?"

"I don't know. I mean, I didn't really expect this, though I guess maybe I should have." She's almost babbling now. Not quite, but it's closer to normal and for some reason that seems like a good omen. "What about Buffy?" she asks.

"I don't know. Didn't expect this either. Guess we're neither of us all that bright." He lets her go, knowing she wants to light a candle or two so she can see him for the rest of this. That's exactly what she does.

"I don't want anyone to be hurt."

"Glinda left you. Can't see where she has much of a right to any pain. If she feels any, well, that's her problem, now isn't it." Spike has a hard time mustering up much compassion for Tara…the way she turned tail and ran when Red was in trouble after all she did when Tara got her mind sucked dry by Glory. It reminds him of the way Dru just left him in that sodding wheelchair...

"I love her. I still do. I have …feelings for you, but that doesn't mean I don't care about Tara." She pauses for a long moment. "Just like you love Buffy."

Spike would beg to differ. Loving Buffy can't be anything like loving Tara. Still, he decides that heaping scorn on Willow's little witch is probably ill-advised. And really, when it comes right down to it, they've both loved not wisely, but too well, so maybe it's the same after all. "I do. But that doesn't mean I don't care for you." He decides that if he's going to do this, he'll go all the way. William is alive and well and living in Sunnydale. "I don't know what this is, pet," he says, taking her hand and letting her see his sincerity in his eyes. "It's not like anything I've ever done before. Not sure I'm any good for you. But I..." So much for his intentions; he can't say another word.

"Me, too. I mean, I think I understand." She's adorable right now. Confusion is fetching on her. He thinks he noticed that before, a long time ago in a deserted warehouse.

It's funny that, when all is said and done, everything comes down to the two of them on a bed. How have they avoided the obvious thing for so long? Not that he thinks they'll be doing that today. "You're not planning on getting back together with your girl, are you?" He thinks he knows the answer, but asking just happens.

"Not now, no." She's still puzzled and distracted and he thinks she might be having some sort of complicated inner argument. "What about Buffy?"

"What about her?"

"Are you going to break up with her?" Willow is chewing her bottom lip now and Spike is almost willing her to draw blood. He'd give anything to taste her.

"We're not really together. She comes by for a hard shag and a bit of pain. She doesn't see this as a relationship any more than I do." The words flow easily – too easily. He wonders why…and then he knows.

Willow, however, senses nothing. She's caught up in some of his words and she doesn't realize that they aren't the only two people in the crypt anymore. "What do you mean by pain? You can't hurt Buffy."

"Yeah, I can. Seems she came back a bit…different. I could beat the living daylights out of her if I wanted and the chip wouldn't affect me a bit." He watches as her eyes fill with tears. "Pet, don't take it on yourself. Bringing her back seemed like the right thing to do. Town was in danger of being overrun, now wasn't it? The world needed a Slayer and you did what you thought was best. Not like you knew she wasn't in Hell, either." Spike doesn't tell her that he isn't sure Buffy was in Heaven anyway. Best to save that for a better time.

"Good intentions aren't much good when you do bad things," Willow says.

He doesn't really know what to say to that. The last time he had good intentions, he was breathing, and that was a long time ago.

"C'mere, pet." And now she's back in his arms. He can almost hear a longing to see the action from the eavesdropper above. "Why don't you just rest here for awhile? Everything will sort itself out. No use in fretting." He hates himself for not telling her that one of his reasons for not wanting to talk is that there's nothing more he wants to say in front of an audience, but he can't.

There's no real danger of the intruder outing herself.

It's better if Willow doesn't know that Buffy is here.


	8. Cold Water WakeUp Call

He knew last night that she'd be calling on him, and so it is.

She's here.

Buffy.

And she's not in an affable mood.

"So what was that all about last night?"

She's always been a cut to the chase kind of girl, out of bed as well as in it, and she's wasting no time with small talk or preambles. Not that he needs them, because he knows exactly what she means. She wants to know about his conversation with Willow – the conversation she overheard.

For a moment he thinks of stalling, of playing dumb just for the ducks of it. But she's angry and her nerves are jumping and he can see the throb of veins in neck and temple and he's not going to risk a staking just for the brief fun of being a pain in the arse.

"It was about me and Willow. Had no idea you'd be dropping by to listen." That's the truth, but he's wondering how she'll take it. He shifts infinitesimally, ready to take evasive action or even strike back if the circumstances warrant. He almost hopes she'll try to stake him. Beating the daylights out of a human is a pleasure he's sorely missed.

"There's a 'you and Willow' now?" She looks scared, not the anger he expected, and he's guessing she didn't hear as much as he thought she had. Or maybe she just didn't listen very well.

"Yeah. There is."

"When did that happen?" The anger he expected is beginning to emerge. She's shifted her own weight to one leg, arms akimbo, skin flushing ever so slightly…he makes sure he's prepared if she snaps.

How to answer her question, though? Because really he has no idea. He thinks maybe it all started that day when Buffy was dead and Willow was so pitifully wakeful – the day she first fell asleep in his bed…in his arms. Best to go literal and simple, however. "Last night," he says, remembering the salt-damp of tears that roused him, and the touch of lips that made him wonder if he'd ever truly kissed anyone before.

"Really," Buffy sniffs, arms akimbo.

"Yeah, really," he says, hackles rising, hating her patronizing and dismissive tone. It may be what he's used to from her, but that doesn't mean it doesn't bother him.

_You're beneath me._

Thanks to Willow, he knows that isn't true – or he almost does. But it still aches to be treated like dirt.

Of course, there had been more to the conversation and he knew it was too much to hope for that Buffy wouldn't be angry about it.

"Why did you tell her?"

"Didn't. She overheard us." Buffy's about to blow a gasket when Spike cuts in. "I warned you she was here. Not my fault you kept shrieking."

"She's known all this time?"

"Yes, she has."

Buffy is silent and Spike's not sure what that means. He stays cautious.

"What about Tara?" she asks at long last.

"What _about_ Tara?" Spike responds. "She left. It's not like she and Willow still had a relationship."

"But Willow's gay," Buffy says, thinking she's found an argument that will work.

"I think that, unless the mutt was hiding a whole different set of bits and pieces under that fur, the correct word is bisexual." He pauses for a moment and impishly decides to pass on some more information. "That wouldn't make her so different from other folks you know, either."

Buffy's eyes go wide and she stares at him. "You mean…you're…?"

He winks. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, love. There's something to be said for playing both sides of the fence." And then he does something that might be as close to suicidal as anything he's ever done. He dares to tell her more. "But if you don't believe _me_, ask Angel. I'm sure he could share some fine stories."

He hears the crack ringing loud in his ears even before he registers the pain of a Slayer palm against his cheek. The smirk appears right after. Flat hand? She's belly-up and vulnerable. "And here I thought you were open-minded and all. What would Red say if she knew you considered saying that someone bats for both teams to be an insult?"

She's shaking and it takes longer than sincerity allows for her weak denial to make it into words. "I didn't mean…"

"So what did you mean? Because if that was foreplay, then it means you're trying to shag your best friend's boyfriend. Not sure which is worse. Either way, you're no friend of Willow's, now are you?"

Buffy collects herself and now she acts the role of the aggrieved party. "What about what Willow did?"

"You mean you and me? Don't be ridiculous. You yourself said this was all about fucking. You said I was beneath you. Since we had no relationship, it follows that you can't accuse Willow of stealing your man, now can you?" Then the light dawns. "But that's not what this is about, is it? This is about you thinking Willow ripped you out of heaven."

Now it's danger again. No soft, pink flesh exposed. He's in the room with a caught creature, all claws and fury. He's back on guard.

"_Thinking?_" she screams. "I was in heaven! I was happy! Death was my gift!"

"And she didn't know that, did she? None of us did. Red was going out of her mind – terrified that you were in some horrible hell dimension. So she did what she thought was the right thing. Maybe she made a mistake, but she did it for all the right reasons, and it's about damn time you stopped making her pay." Buffy is just staring into space now and Spike dares to give her more. "You said you could see us down here and that we were fine. But we weren't fine – none of us. Dawn was a wreck, Willow was doing everything for everyone and nothing for herself, Giles was lost in grief…and so was I. We were fighting a losing battle against every demon imaginable and the town was about to fall. So you tell me, Buffy…did you really see us? Was it an illusion, some sort of pretty lie that went along with your gift? Or are you the liar? Did you get to heaven and figure that those you left behind didn't merit a moment's more thought? Did you caper about with all the saints and forget you were ever a Slayer?"

He doesn't get an answer. But he doesn't get a stake to the heart either. She's still staring off into space. The dust motes swirl in the dim light as he waits to see which way things go. A seemingly endless series of minutes pass and he waits.

Finally, she speaks. "I don't know." Which question that's an answer to, if any, he isn't sure, but somehow, it's still a very meaningful thing to say. And it might be the most honest thing Buffy has said since her resurrection. He hears different words as well, though he knows she didn't say them and that she never will.

_I'm sorry._

"Death isn't a gift, Buffy. Not when you have a life. It was easy for the First Slayer to say that giving up this world is some big treat. She had nothing to leave behind. But you? You have friends and family and people who love you. Embrace that. _Life_ is your gift."

His arms are full of sobbing, broken Buffy almost as soon as he says those last words. It's funny. He's held her how many times and far more intimately, but this is the first time he's held her and it really means anything. There's feeling there. It's not the love he used to feel, but it's better, because it's real and not some cockeyed delusion. She's _Buffy_, not some empty husk.

"There, there," he says as he holds her. It's a silly thing to say, but she can't hear him anyway, so what does it matter?

Her tears are abating now, but he holds her a bit longer, letting her compose herself. As she clings to him, he can feel her shift slightly, and he gently disentangles himself. He doesn't want her to think that things will ever be the same way again. She needs a different sort of comfort now and it's time for her to realize that, too.

There's an awkward moment. They both know what Buffy thought was going to happen and even she knows that was wrong.

"So. Willow," she says, bringing things full circle in a way that feels a lot like the teacup ride at Disneyland. Not a favorite memory of Spike's, but an apt metaphor is an apt metaphor.

"Yeah. Willow," he says, hoping the dizziness of the memory doesn't come with the metaphor.

"She didn't say anything to me," Buffy says, and they really _are_ full circle.

"Didn't think it was her place, I expect."

"Before…she would have come to me. She would have said something. I can't believe…has it all changed that much, Spike, that my best friend won't even talk to me?" Her eyes are pools of tears again and he refrains from hurting her more by asking how she managed not to notice until now that she and Willow haven't been close for a long time.

"What with the magick and the way things have been…," he says delicately.

"Yeah." Her voice is dispirited, as if she knows his words are a weak excuse. She knows the truth without him telling her, and that's really better.

"You love her?"

That's a question he wasn't expecting, though he realizes now that he's an idiot for that. What question would any woman ask at this juncture? That very one.

The trouble is, he can't answer it. At least he doesn't think he can. But it seems that Buffy has no such trouble.

"You love her." The words are the same, but this time there's no uncertainty. It's a statement. Her eyes are sharp and they fix on him with a kind of purity he never thought he'd see from her. She knows him – for the first time ever she's looking at him and seeing _him_.

What a prankster Fate could be, bringing them to this kind of understanding at such a time and in such a way.

"Guess I do," he says.

The crypt goes silent again. But at least this time, he's not keeping his eye on her hands fearing the appearance of a stake.

"I'm glad," she says, surprising him all over again. She used to be predictable. This is strange, but then again, Willow always brings out the best, or at least the truest in people.

"Me, too." He's never meant anything more than he means that.

"I better go," she says. "Should I tell Willow that I know? That it's okay?" She's a girl now, not a Slayer, and it breaks his heart that she needs to ask him how to talk to her best friend. Now is no time for tough love or games.

"Yeah. I think you should. I think there's a lot of things you should tell her. Like maybe tell her that you love her."

"Funny, I was going to give you the same advice," she offers with a watery grin.

"I will if you will." He's cheeky now, letting her lighten the mood.

"It's a deal." She's about to leave when she suddenly turns and runs to him, pulling him into a tight hug. "Thank you," she whispers.

And then she's gone.

The End.


	9. The Flutter of Eyelids

There's a sense of tension in the Magic Box as he enters, hoping nothing from the sewers has clung to his clothing. Ridiculous – that's how he feels – but what else can he do? It's not as if he can take a stroll in the sunlight but he has to tell Willow how he feels and he has to do it now – today – or he'll lose his nerve and he'll never be able to say those three small words that are somehow bigger than the world.

_I love you._

He's taking a chance that she's here and not at Buffy's house. He probably should have gone there, but he feels squeamish about declaring his love for her best friend in the home of a girl with whom he was once obsessed. Sure, she says she's okay with his devotion to Willow, but that's all the more reason to treat his one-time paramour with some respect and consideration. Buffy's been capital, really, the way she's accepted how things have changed, and Spike admires her for it. There's no call to rub her face in it – especially since his innate cynicism tells him he really shouldn't push her tolerance too far.

Besides, it looks as if his luck is holding. Willow is sitting at the table, pecking away on that laptop of hers. She looks up at the sound of his entrance and her smile makes it worth the stench he endured on the way.

"Spike," she calls out cheerfully, getting up. He can tell she's about to rush over to him, but then she remembers they're not alone. Anya's standing right behind the counter – that sure explains the tension – and she's got her beady eyes fixed on Willow in a way that makes Spike want to slap her face. Yeah, Willow had a bit of a challenge with the magic and, okay, maybe she pinched a few herbs and oils, but considering how much_ good_ the girl's done for fuck-all as well, he figures it's just payment for services rendered. Anya needs to get the stick out of her arse and get over it already. Of course, he himself hasn't always been so averse to taking what he needs without bothering to pay for it, so maybe he just likes the idea of a girl whose moral lapses match his own.

He's feeling impish all of a sudden, perhaps it's remembering the bad old days, and he decides to give Anya something to stare at. He walks right up to Willow and before she can say a word, he takes her in his arm and kisses her softly. "Hello, luv." She just stares into his eyes, the strangest mixture of affection and anger showing on her face.

"Aren't you gay?" Anya asks Willow accusingly, clearly confused. At moments like this, she looks just like that boyfriend of hers and it's all Spike can do not to burst into laughter.

"Ummm…" Willow is clearly not prepared to answer questions and Spike doesn't blame her. He's not even sure she's had a chance to talk to Buffy yet and find out that the one person who really matters already knows about them.

Oh, he almost forgot about Tara. Yeah, she really ought to have known before Anya, but what's done is done and while Spike will pretend to care for Willow's sake, he's not going to bother with all that prevaricating nonsense when it's just his thoughts. Not like Willow can read his mind…can she?

Obviously not or she'd be glaring at him again instead of wearing that deer caught in the headlights look she's still sporting as she struggles to answer Anya's question. Spike decides to spare her the trouble. "She's bisexual, you daft bint."

"But you said over and over that you were gay." Well, he can't argue with Anya there. Willow_ has_ rather overemphasized that. In fact, looking back, it sounds ridiculously like overcompensation. Tara's insecurities were at the bottom of those numberless strident declarations, Spike would wager.

"I…it's complicated," Willow says, now looking at Spike rather imploringly.

"How complicated is it to know who you want to have sex with?"

Again, Anya's reasoning is pretty solid, though Spike hates to admit it. He opts _not _to, actually, and instead comes back with, "When a girl's kissed Xander Harris, it's easy to see how she'd feel like going all out for the other team." His timeline's way off and he knows it, but he's not one to let the facts stand in the way of a good riposte.

Anya's about to rip right into him and Willow looks ready to defend her useless lump of a childhood friend, but Spike's saved from it all by a new arrival.

Buffy is here.

Willow edges away from Spike, trying to be subtle and failing. It's obvious 'the talk' hasn't happened yet.

"How are you two doing?" Buffy asks. There's awkwardness there, too, but she's smiling and it's obvious she's doing her best to be accepting, though it must be harder when she has to see the two of them together.

Unfortunately, since Spike hasn't had the chance to tell Willow that Buffy knows, Willow is scared out of her wits. Spike knows it from the instantaneous change in her scent.

"I'm doing fine. I don't know how Spike is because he just got here," she says, nervous as can be.

"And he was too busy kissing her to tell her anything," Anya says doesn't know about the affair, believing instead that Buffy despises him, but it still means she thinks she's starting something and a fervent hope to have touched off fireworks gleams in her eyes.

Spike almost chortles with glee as Anya's hopes are dashed on the reef of Buffy's character. "That's nice to hear." She turns to Anya, as on to the ex-demon's shenanigans as Spike, and says, "I already gave them my blessing."

"You know?" Who would have ever thought Willow and Anya would say the same thing at the same time.

"Yeah, Will, I do." For the second time today, Willow is in someone's arms, and if they aren't his, Spike thinks Buffy's are a good place for her to be as well. He can feel the relief pouring off his love in waves as she and Buffy disentangle themselves from their hug. "Why don't we go the training room and talk? I'm pretty sure Anya isn't interested in any of this. She has a business to run."

With that, Buffy heads to the other room at a brisk pace and Willow scrambles to follow. Spike takes his time, stopping to look back at a clearly frustrated and annoyed Anya. "Sorry about that, demon girl." He winks as she scowls pathetically and he whistles happily while he ambles off to join Willow and Buffy.

They're standing there, neither knowing quite what to say, when he walks in.

"Hey." Buffy gives him a soft smile. It doesn't reach her eyes, but she's trying and that's what matters.

"I guess Spike must have told you," Willow says, her nerves jumping again. She also doesn't know that Buffy knows she knows about…

"It's okay. I know you know that Spike and I were…" She looks away, obviously uncomfortable. Spike has to admit to a similar feeling, and he's glad she feels no need to discuss the details of what was never a healthy relationship. "But I want you to know that it's over and I think it's great that you and Spike are…"

"Thanks," Willow says, relieving her friend of the task of having to say it out loud – that Willow and Spike are in love.

But are they? Because sure, Spike knows he loves Willow, but does she love him back?

"Gosh, this is kind of awkward, isn't it?" Willow continues, and Spike has to agree.

Buffy doesn't answer. She seems to have some sort of speech prepared and Spike can almost see her shuffling her mental notes. She clears her throat slightly and begins.

"Willow, I know that we've been…not good lately. And I know that a big part of that has been me. I've had a lot of issues since…"

In an instant, Willow interrupts. "Buffy, I'm so sorry! If I'd known you were in heaven, but I thought…"

"I know," Buffy says, holding her hand up to forestall further interruption. "Just let me say this, okay?" Willow nods and Buffy continues. "I thought everything was fine here and that you guys were just selfish and…I was wrong. A good friend," she smiles slightly at Spike, "told me that I was wallowing in self-pity and that death had never been my gift. He was right, too. Because I have a _life_, a good one, with a sister, and a calling, and with friends that love me, friends who are my family," she pauses for a moment, then takes Willow's hands in hers, "friends like you."

With that, the two women embrace. It makes Spike happy to see Willow finally get back the friend he knows she's missed so sorely, but at the same time, he feels oddly alone. That's the way of this, though. Theirs is a friendship forged before he ever met them and, when it comes down to it, it has nothing to do with him and it never will. It's a friendship that will always be inside of Willow in a place he can't enter. He will have to adjust to that.

This is new to him, the idea of being part of someone's life without being all of it. He's pretty sure, though, that he can deal with it and be happy. Willow has more love to give than anyone he's ever known and even if he's not the only object of it in her life, he'll still get more from her than he ever got from Dru or Angelus…or Buffy.

The girls continue to hold each other, both now in tears. "I love you, Buffy," Willow chokes out, her voice sodden and ardently affectionate.

"I love you, too, Will," Buffy replies, her speech equally clumsy with emotion.

"Me, too," Spike adds softly. He supposes that, for all his good intentions, he can't help intruding, and besides, this seems like the safest time to say the words.

He hadn't thought it through, however, and Willow looks terrified; he knows what she's thinking…and so does Buffy, who beats him to the punch, bless her. "He means you. He loves _you_."

"You love me?" Willow stares at him, eyes wide and glistening and confused as she and Buffy slip apart.

"Yeah, pet, I do."

Willow is suddenly unsteady on her feet and it's lucky there's a chair nearby for her to sit in. "Gosh…I…I never thought…" Spike's heart sinks as she stammers and rambles and Buffy makes it worse – she looks at him, eyes full of pity. Damn her! The last thing he wants is her pity…_anyone's _pity.

But Willow keeps rambling to herself. "I mean…yeah…I love _you_…but…"

That's all Spike needs to hear before he grabs her and pulls her to her feet and kissing her. "You love me?" he asks.

She nods but doesn't speak for a moment and that's all the time it takes for Spike to feel a small measure of regret for his display. Buffy's grasp on her dignity is being tested sorely right now and he feels badly for making her witness this, but still…Willow loves him and that's what's registering most strongly. "I love you," she says, again, but really for the first time since before she'd been mumbling distractedly.

Buffy slips out of the room, but Spike catches her eye as she goes and he hopes _his_ eyes tell her that he's proud of her. He likes her now, respects her, in this new and different way. He's a damn sight smarter than Angel, he thinks, having gotten to the place where he realizes that Buffy could be a worthy friend and letting misplaced passion fall away into the dust he hopes he'll never join.

His arms still enfold Willow, and he revels in the damp of her tear-stained face against his shoulder and the warmth of her skin under his hands. It's not long, though, before she remembers that Buffy isn't the only one affected by this.

"I have to tell Tara, Spike. I have to tell her now."

She's right, of course, but he still wishes she wouldn't. Let the girl find out the old-fashioned way – when Xander or Anya opens their big gob at the wrong moment.

If he's honest with himself, he'll admit that he fears that Tara will realize, at last, what she's losing and will launch a last-ditch effort to hang onto a girl she was sure she could keep dangling on a string forever. Can he win, he wonders, or will he be left to nurse a heart broken into more pieces than ever?

He says nothing about his anxiety to Willow. Instead, he just holds her and lets her go on about 'starting their relationship honestly' and 'doing the right thing.' It's who she is, he knows, and he can't stop her. He only hopes that she's still his when the dust settles.

The End.


	10. A Dream of Waking

Spike's starting to understand what humans don't like about crypts. Because sitting here, alone and scared, waiting to see what happens when (if) Willow comes back from her 'chat' with Tara fills him with that sense of doom and despair humans always feel in places like this. Sure, he's already dead, but Spike knows better than anyone that an unbeating heart can still be broken and there are so many kinds of death.

Like losing the one you love.

It isn't as if he hasn't been there before – Angelus and Dru both found him so very easy to abandon, after all.

For a moment he thinks that perhaps he should have stayed at the Magic Box, but then he thinks that being around Anya would just make everything worse. The girl was still in quite a pet when he left and she'd love nothing more than to pick at the scab of his insecurities. She might be an _ex_-demon, but a snake is a snake even in a glass case and he's not foolish enough to underestimate the chit the way the rest of them do.

His senses alert him to the fact that he's no longer alone before the door even opens. Lucky thing, that – gives him a chance to get out of range of the shaft of light that appears when the door opens. Even though he already knew who'd be entering, he's still surprised to see her.

"Buffy." He says her name in a way he isn't sure he ever has before – free of sarcasm, antagonism…or love.

"Figured I'd come here and see how you're holding up." She's trying to sound casual, but there's the awkwardness of this unfamiliar role as his friend in every word. It's affecting because it means something and he can't say that of what they shared before. He realizes, of course, that he wouldn't understand that at all if Willow hadn't already taught him what friendship could be. There's a strange symmetry, he realizes, in the way Willow has grown from friend to lover and Buffy has…grown from fuck to friend.

"I'm fine," he says. It's a lie and you shouldn't lie to friends, but…

It doesn't really matter since she doesn't believe him. "No, you're not. You're worried about Willow."

He shrugs. It's not agreement, he tells himself, it's just respect enough not to keep lying.

"She's coming back."

"I know."

"No, you don't," Buffy says, reading him in a way that's disquieting. "But I do. I saw the way she looked at you. It's there, Spike – love, passion, the whole thing. Everything you feel for her, she feels right back."

Her voice once again betrays her inner struggle, but all that means is that Spike is more impressed with her now than he's ever been. "You're one hell of a woman, Slayer." He gives her a smile, tries to keep it light. In a way, this is hard for him, too – unfamiliar and clumsy and strange.

"I know that, too." She grins back. Cocky, cheeky – she's on easier ground now.

There are things he'd like to say to her; she's not ready to hear them. Just as well, really, because he's not yet ready to say them. He thinks that's why they're both quiet now – both groping their way through the darkness of this unaccustomed and unforeseen terrain.

When words come, they come out odd and somehow wrong. "You doing okay?" he asks.

She snorts. "Yeah."

"Didn't mean it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like…whatever it is you thought I meant."

For all that it nearly made him wince as he heard himself say it, the answer was the right one. Within seconds, they're both laughing. It's a bit rueful from both of them, but it _is_ laughter and it works to ease the tension.

"Thanks," she says after a time.

"For what?"

"Everything," she says. Somehow her answer is both precise and imprecise all at once.

His senses kick in and he nearly trembles.

Buffy spots the change in his demeanour in a trice. "She's back?"

"Yeah," he can barely reply.

"Good." She grins just as the door opens again and Willow steps into the crypt.

She won't get the wrong idea, will she?

"Hey," a soft voice says.

"Hey, yourself," Buffy says, sounding sprightly and bubbly and much like the girl she used to be. "Well," she adds, "I guess I'll be going. My work here is done." She puts her hand on Spike's shoulder for a moment. "Don't forget what I said, okay? It's all there." She points to her eyes as if he needs some sort of child's primer. He can't help chuckling softly.

"Bye, Will." She's walked over to hug Willow now and he can tell his Red's confused. But before she has a chance to ask anything, Buffy is out the door.

Her face is expressive, but Spike's not sure which of many possible emotions the cast of her features is expressing. "You're here." Could he have made a more obvious, more ridiculous statement? He's starting to sound like Harris. Bloody hell.

"Yeah, I am." There's no trace of mockery in her tone and he thinks maybe he's suddenly found some way to love her more.

"She told me you would be."

"Who? Oh, _Buffy_," Willow says, answering her own question. She's absolutely adorable.

"How did it go? The talk with Tara." He could kick himself for cutting to the chase, but it's too late now. The elephant in the crypt is now front and center. At least he remembered to use the chit's real name. He thinks Willow will appreciate that small gesture of respect for the girl he's just bested.

"It…" In seconds she's crumbling and Spike only just gets to her in time before she collapses in sobs in his arms.

"There, there, pet. It was the right thing to do."

She says nothing for what seems like forever and Spike's terror resurfaces. Does she regret it? Does she wish she'd chosen Glinda over him?

When he lets her go, she finds her feet and finally starts to speak; he finds himself actually drawing in a breath. It's an odd and discomfiting sensation. "I know," she says, and he exhales. Again, it almost makes him shudder at the unnaturalness of the exercise. "But that doesn't mean I feel good about it."

"Didn't take it well? Your… Tara, I mean." He can't believe he almost said 'your girl.' Nothing could be more expressive of his inability to truly believe anyone could love him the way he so desperately wants Willow to love him.

"No." Willow says. It's a quiet syllable. A succinct and singular thing, so wholly unlike her that he keeps waiting for the rush of words which are supposed to accompany it. They never come.

Still, he waits.

Finally, she speaks again. "I don't want to talk about it, okay? Maybe I will later, or maybe tomorrow, or next year, or maybe I'll always want it to stay private. It doesn't matter. What matters is that I told her that I love you and that she and I are never getting back together and…"

She might still be talking, but Spike barely hears a word after 'I love you.' All the poets and bards in every language and every age have striven mightily, but none has ever come up with a single sentence more eloquent, more beautiful, more powerful, than that elegant arrangement of three simple words.

"I love you, too, pet," he says, pulling her back into his arms and holding her tightly.

Too tightly, as it turns out. "Uh, Spike?" she squeaks. "Oxygen becoming an issue."

He loosens his hold and they both laugh a little. It's a good thing, the right sort of laughter. That's a lesson he's learned twice today.

"Sorry," he says, rather superfluously, truth be told.

"'S okay," she says, giving him the gift of a smile. "Thanks for not…you know…pushing." He almost loses his balance. It's unnerving that she knows him so well – knows that if he were going to interrogate her, she'd have at least felt him building up to it already.

"I trust you." Also a simple, elegant sentence, and if it falls short of the splendor of that sentence with which it shares two words, it has a power and importance all its own.

"I know. I trust you, too." He realizes he knew that already. Because while he asked for no details about her encounter with Tara, she's said nothing about Buffy's presence in the crypt when she arrived.

"C'mere," he says, though she's standing right in front of him.

Getting his meaning, she wraps her arms around him, laying her head against his chest. He's having none of that. With his hand under her chin, he tilts her head up so her eyes meet his. He kisses her softly.

Freedom – it doesn't mean anything like nothing left to lose. What it means is the difference between furtive and fervent, between guilty and glorious. It means that this touch of lip to lip is like nothing he's ever known. This is not like kissing a Drusilla who was always longing for her sire; it's not like kissing an Angelus who was always looking for something he could never be; it's not like kissing a Buffy who wanted nothing but a hard smack and a hard fuck. No, this is two people who feel the same for each other; two people who don't want and have no ties to anyone else; two people free to have anything they choose and who choose…each other. Freedom – in a way, it means you have everything to lose.

And it also means you believe in something enough to take that risk.

The kiss ends and she takes her arms from around him; she walks toward the ladder that leads down to his bed.

This is not the girl he kidnapped all those years ago; this is not the girl he tried to sire in her dorm room. He sees it all so clearly in the way she silently tells him that she's ready to give that last piece of herself to him and that she wants him to give that last piece of himself to her. She's a woman – his woman.

But he's William somehow and he does need words. "Are you sure?" he asks as he follows her.

They're down the ladder and on his bed before she answers. It's simple and succinct again. "Yes."

He lights three candles, wanting light – not because he needs them to see or because he's worried that she'll look for someone else in the dark, but because she's brought light into his heart and what isn't his soul but feels so very much like one and some sort of literal metaphor seems appropriate.

William, after all, was a bloody awful poet.

The touch of her hand on his cheek feels like an epiphany. "You're beautiful." He won't say a word about her choice of adjectives. Somehow the word doesn't make him feel poncey at all.

He knows enough not return the compliment. For all she's changed, she's still not one to believe what she's told, not when it seems to flatter. So he puts his lips to better use.

The kiss this time is passion and devotion, more ardent and intense than any they've ever shared. It doesn't surprise him in the least that she's capable of so much more than she seems to be on the outside – where there's sweetness, you're likely to find spice, after all. What _does_ surprise him is winding up on his back with her astride him, pushing up his shirt and licking a slow trail up his chest from his navel.

He must be the luckiest creature on Earth.

Still, he stops her for a moment – but only so he can sit up and remove the troublesome garment. He raises an eyebrow, hoping she'll get the point that he'd very much appreciate her returning the favour.

She does, and it's all he can do not to gasp. Sure, he's had fantasies about what was concealed under her clothes, but seeing it…he's never realized someone could be so pale in a way that was nothing like his kind. Her skin _glows_ with life despite its pallor. Then she unhooks her bra and he's even more awed. Her breasts look perfect to him. There's an artistic symmetry to her form – it might not be the lush sensuality of Dru or the tight sexual promise that was Buffy, but it's no less alluring. She's like some decadent wood sprite, and isn't that fit to make a poet hard?

"You're stunning," he says, because he has to say something or he just knows he'll explode in verse as surely as another part of him feels ready to explode right now.

She smiles and then…blushes. It's part of the paradox that makes her Willow and he loves her for the way a compliment can tinge her skin with pink even as she's atop her lover…though not yet in the way they'd both like best.

"Take your skirt off." It's not exactly an order, but she scrambles off him, hastening to comply, all the same. He takes the opportunity to shuck his jeans – bit of a delicate process with him standing rather proudly at attention, but he manages quite easily. Watching as she slides off her knickers, he thinks that he's never seen anything as perfect as she is.

She looks him over as well. Her eyes widen as she reaches his cock and he hastens to reassure her. "It'll be fine, luv. I know it's been awhile for you. I'll be gentle."

But then she surprises him again with a grin both impish and knowing. "Not too gentle, I hope."

And if he hadn't known she was the one before, he surely knows it now. He's on his back again and in seconds she's atop him, and this time…

"Oh!" she cries softly as she guides him inside her. He's too overwhelmed for words himself, not that there are any adequate to describe what he's feeling right now. She's still, adjusting to the feel of him inside her, he thinks at first. But then their eyes meet and he realizes she feels the same thing he does – a sense of wonder and newness and right about this and she just wants to linger in this moment.

They do, but then there's that ache that forces them both into motion. Spike's true to his word, being gentle, mindful of her inexperience and the length of time she's spent with a woman for a lover – and she's true to hers as well, not letting him treat her too gingerly.

There should be a way to capture feelings and experiences in a bottle so you could have them over and over again. The bloke who invents that, Spike thinks, could be as rich as Croesus just off what Spike would pay to be able to keep this time with Willow in such a bottle. Each movement, the sounds she makes, the way she feels around and astride him, the scent of her sweat and the slick of it as her skin slides against his…it's all like being given a sunrise again after more than a century.

And then, joined and as one, they both find release. And that, again, is an experience he could never find the words to describe.

"Wow," she says, when it's over and she's collapsed beside him, panting, the sweat salt and growing sticky on her skin.

"Yeah," he says, because really, she's said as much as could be said.

"I love you." They both say it and which one said it first isn't something he manages to recall. He's too preoccupied with memorizing the look on her face as she falls into sated slumber.

Just like the first night she ever spent here, Spike watches her as she sleeps.

The End.

**This is the very last part of the series. We shall leave Spike and Willow in their happiness and entrust fate with their future. Thank you for reading.**


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